


A Marriage of Minds

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, New Orleans, Phone Calls & Telephones, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slightly AU. Alex and Dana have a tense phone conversation</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Marriage of Minds

 

For the first time in my life, I'm disappointed in New Orleans. And it isn't even really the city's fault. It's the same decadent pit as ever- - unabashedly perverse, heartlessly seductive, leaving me with a twitch in my cock and a spring in my step. But it can't stop this change inside of me. I came here looking for salvation. Then again, it's somewhat foolish to expect a city that actually has a sanctioned holiday for total and complete insanity (they call it Mardi Gras) to change the craziest motherfucking situation in my life.

Doesn't mean I didn't expect it, though. This city is like that. Miracles happen, and not because you deserve 'em or because this place is in any way, shape, or form holy or whatever. Ultimately, New Orleans is just like the universe, or fate: it's completely random and it favors the bold. But here I lay, body sprawled out on a cheap mattress in the tawdriest little French Quarter apartment, fucked over and waiting for the phone to ring. Life ain't fair, but dammit, it's usually on my side.

Maybe some faith would do me good. I could be making a snap judgement about this situation. This could be a blessing in disguise, right? I groan. Bullshit this is a blessing. That's the kind of lie hypocrites tell themselves to maintain pretty faces in the morning. I don't lie to myself like that. That sort of self-serving nonsense is reserved for--

The sound of the phone is sharp and shrill against my ears. I count the rings.

One.

Oh, who could it be? Who dares infiltrate my privacy?

Two.

I hear you knocking, but you can't come in!

Thr--

I pick up the phone.

"Hey, baby," I growl into the receiver. "How's tricks?"

"Why the fuck are you in New Orleans, Alex?" Dana Scully asks me, her voice sharp with irritation.

Witness my lack of surprise.

I knew that she'd find me sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but fate has seen it fit to deal me an extraordinarily rotten hand of late. I decide to shrug it off.

"I'm trying to get you out of my head, honey," I say, proud of the faintly contemptuous Southern drawl I manage to use. "You're fucking up my edge."

She laughs. It's a bitter laugh that I not only hear over the phone but also feel deep in my gut, aching like battery acid, tracing hideous scars into the stomach lining. God damn her. Why can't she just leave me alone? She knows where I am. Talking about it isn't going to make any difference at all.

"Why don't you leave me alone, Alex?" she echoes in her desperate little know-it-all voice. "What am I going to do? I can feel you. You're under my skin. I can almost see you, lounging about like a big cat, licking your lips. When you breathe in, I breathe out. Hell, I didn't even have to look you up. I know where you are. I knew where you were last night. I was practically there with you. That was a shitty little college bar, by the way. Why did you even bother?"

I breathe in calmly and almost smile when there's an exasperated rush of breath on the other end of the phone. At least there's some fun in this hellish connection fate has seen fit to curse me with. I may be stuck with Scully in my head, but she's got me clinging to her every thought too, an unwanted passenger bound to her as tightly as an unborn child. I lick my lips slowly, reveling in the moment just for her.

"What did you think of _her_ , Daaaaayyynnnnaaa?" I ask, caressing my chest slightly, letting my thoughts trail back to that shitty college bar with its slick, sticky floor, the stale stench of bad cigarettes, the J. Crew clones that giggled as the perky bartenders made "three for one" drinks closer to six-for-ones. I need a little fun in my life in this dark period and this is as close as I've gotten in awhile.

"Who?" she snaps.

"You know who," I murmur, remembering more. For a moment I almost lose it as I realize that Scully is furious. Whenever Scully gets this angry, she starts reliving the moment she found Luis Cardinale, but instead of yelling at him she shoots him over and over, riddling his body with bullet holes. The girl I'm thinking of isn't nearly as important as that. But I force myself to think of her.

"The sloppy one? The one who was raving like a lunatic?" Dana asks, sounding rather judgmental.

"Raving like a lunatic's rather harsh, isn't it? After all, darling, she had something like eight shots of vodka in her," I murmur. "But you know what? I think I'm going to kill her."

"What?"

"I'm going crazy with you in my head, darling. If I don't kill someone soon, I might have to take more desperate measures. I thought she was awfully pretty, even if she was so drunk she couldn't stand up. She's probably depressed. I'm probably doing her a favor," I say breezily. "And if not, I'm doing the world a favor. There are too many college binge drinkers. Maybe I should go on a killing spree, take out a whole bunch of dumb college students who think the world is about getting shitfaced on Friday nights to impress their sorority sisters."

"Fuck you, Krycek."

"You didn't say that a few weeks ago, did you?" I reply cheerfully. "Oh, I forgot. If _you_ want someone dead, it's for all the right reasons, isn't it?"

There's a deadly silence in my head. Oh, shit. I have pissed her off.

"Get out of my head, Alex!" she screams suddenly. Damn, Scully's shrill when she's desperate. I play off of it without even a shrug.

"You first, darling," I reply. "It'd be nice to finally have my choice of boy-toys again."

"Fuck you," she repeats. I laugh, and the darkness of the room feels so much more comforting suddenly. It's almost metaphorical, this darkness. She's in my head, but I'm in hers. The darkness is getting to her, driving a splinter into her brain. We're the two-in-one, an unholy union, splintering personalities slowing growing together in the midst of madness.

"Didn't you realize, baby?" I ask, rubbing my cheek. I need a shave before I go out tonight. And I do think I'll go out tonight. "I've been letting you pick 'em. You like those all-American boys, don't you, baby? Always so handsome and button-down, really. But you got a special radar on you, babe, I'll give you that. I never met so many good old- fashioned boys who were so desperately in need of a hot daddy to give 'em what-for... of course, you being in need of a what-for, I shouldn't be surprised, should I?"

"I'll call the police if you kill that girl, Alex," she threatens, trying to distract me. Heh. Dana's masochism is the highlight of this entire experience. I hadn't realized that behind such an uptight and bitchy facade lurked a pathological sub. But it makes her just that much more interesting. It also explains why she's not fucking Mulder yet. He's just masochistic enough that he'll never make a move. Poor kids. They're just two masochists in search of a sadist.

I could be that sadist. But I choose not to be.

"Oh, Dana," I say in a mock-chiding voice. "Are you that interested in prison sex? Or do you just get off on being completely dominated? Is that what you really want? A big manly man telling you to get on your knees and suck his cock? Sweet Jesus in heaven, girl, don't you know you just have to whisper your dirty little fantasies into Mulder's ear and your wish will be his command?"

I laugh as she slams down the receiver without replying, her anger hot and corrosive and almost sweet as it echoes in my skull. Then I hope she doesn't get a rage migraine. It would definitely suck to be dancing with Lance from N'Sync at Oz and feel Her Majesty's headache take the fun out of my night.

"I might even have to kill that girl if that were to happen," I say aloud to nobody. After all, she can't hear me, not exactly. This is what I've discovered after three or four months with this unwanted visitor in my brain. She and I are linked. We just know everything about each other. It's not mind reading. It's not visions. We just know. That's as far as I can explain it. She's in my head. I can ignore her. She can ignore me. But she never goes away.

God damn, what a fucked-up fate. To be linked, mind and soul, to the last person on earth I would ever want to be linked to. But that's life, you know? Weird shit happens and if you don't deal with it the best you can, you're just a victim and you deserve all the heartache you get. Me, I deal with it whatever way I can and when I can't, I run.

That's why I'm here, right? I'm here looking out on the quiet side of Bourbon Street, on an unseasonably cold January night to get away. Fucking city-- it isn't supposed to be fifty degrees EVER in New Orleans. This is a subtropical paradise, and what do I find when I get here? Winter. Fucking winter. At least the plants are still green. This place is an escape from the dark prison of Dana Scully's head, where I can almost see her staring at the bars on her window as she wonders what exactly she did to offend a vengeful God.

"Dana," I say, standing up and stripping off my clothes in the darkness of my apartment. "Baby, don't you get it? God doesn't give a damn about you or me. Get out of your house, babe, go out and fuck the universe back for fucking you."

I'm giving her advice now. What the hell is wrong with me? I want her out of my head. I need her out of my head before I feel sorry for us, trapped together without explanation or reason, just a freak of a universe that's nothing more than a lonely freak itself. Soon I'll feel bad about wanting to kill that girl, to watch her laugh at me in delighted, idiot tones before her eyes bulged from the lack of oxygen and before the bones in her neck snapped in operatic seconds. I wanted her dead as amusement, as a beautiful reminder of just how unfair the universe is.

Get out of the room, Alex baby, go fuck the universe as best you can. Get the bitch out of your head or you're lost, you're fucked, and nobody will be able to save you.

I leer at myself in the mirror. I may be lost, but I'm lost in a great city with absolutely no morals and a lot of miles between myself and the little voyeur in my head who's stuck staring at walls in a bourgeois upscale prison who's paralyzed by life. And I fuck with her head a lot more than she fucks with mine.

At least, I hope so. I really, really hope so, because if I'm forced to have Miss Sweetness-and-Science in my head, I should at least get some satisfaction from the experience, shouldn't I?

Well, shouldn't I? The pit of my stomach aches as I feel her laugh that not-quite-laughter. I'm so disappointed in New Orleans. I came here to escape. And now I'm starting to think there's no escape anywhere. None at all.

"Get out of my head," I whisper suddenly, rubbing my temples. "Just get out of my head..."


End file.
